My irrational struggle with CrossFit is entirely self-made and often self-defeating. My gym is now posting the WODs for the entire week on Sunday evening. To me, it doesn’t make a bit of difference because they are only open at 8 AM on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so those are the days I work out. I can’t cherry pick because I’m not getting up for a 6 AM class and by noon, I’m completely over it.

So, I looked because I always look. I have no idea exactly who this is being programmed for, but I know who it is not. Me. I’m a Little Old Lady and am not trying to get all testosteroned out or anything. I do this to feel better, not to destroy myself. And these are destroying WODs.

We have been having at least one named WOD per week. These benchmark WODs aren’t really a weekly event type of thing – usually. But for us, they are. I don’t know why. But it is.

Then there will be many Turkish getups and ten rounds of pistols. Ten rounds. You read that right. We are going to be doing a WOD with 10 RFT.

I spent the morning looking at other local gym’s WOD pages. The other really close gym also likes to prove how manly we all are with a bunch of boorah horseshit. The next gym over is really farther away than I would like to drive, but I did like their programming more. But there it is.

So today’s WOD was Kelly
400 meter run
30 box jumps 42/20
30 wall balls 20/14

That’s 1.25 miles of running and 150 each of box jumps and wall balls. Quite frankly, I was hoping to be able to walk tomorrow and this was all just too much. 150 wall balls is Karen which is bad enough without all the other stuff. I was defeated and mad and thought about not going. But I go on Mondays and so I got my fat ass over to the box.

During the prior classes, some people opted to just do three rounds. I mentioned that even that was more than I had intended to do. I was looking at 5 rounds with half the stuff. Coach liked that and so that’s what we all did.

Shit. We all did the same things. All the youngsters and me, the old fart. I knew I would be the last one done. I was doing the same thing as people young enough to be my children. I was going to be last once again. Always last. Always the slowest and the weakest and … if I was on one of the Planet Hunters shows, the one who would be eaten by coyotes.

And I was struggling with the wall balls, just like I knew I would. They jack my heart rate up. I knew I was walking the distance and so that would be slower, but I knew I was going to have to split the wall balls and box breathe and get my heart rate down to “no longer at death’s door” rate so I could go on to the next thing.

Somewhere in there, instead of being mad about it, I started to remember that angry large black man who yells a lot. ISYMFWO. This was my work out. My plan. I could do it. Many old fart women couldn’t manage it, but I could. I would be the last one done, of course, but did that really matter? I was doing my workout. I was working my own plan. The fact that everyone else adopted it didn’t really have anything to do with me or my plan for the day. I was old and feeble and I was doing this awesome shit.

So, for five times, I walked 200 meters. I did 15 consecutive step-ups on an 18” box and then I split the wall balls into eight and seven. I used a 10 pound med ball and hit the nine foot line each time. I had to pause and box breathe and get my heart rate down before I started the wall balls and in the middle. I would be anywhere from one-third to three-quarters done with my walk before my monitor stopped beeping – each round taking longer and longer.

But I did the workout I had intended to do. I finished last, but I finished. I worked really hard and succeeded mostly by not quitting.

And then I came home, ate breakfast, and walked a 5K mostly because I still needed steps for the damn FitBit and I also needed mushrooms and artichoke hearts for dinner tonight. A walk up to the store and back is 5K and it was the slowest time ever. But I did that, too. And I can now make dinner.